Don't Tempt Me…. Dawn Atkins

      

      DON’T TEMPT ME…

      Dawn Atkins

       TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

      MILLS & BOON

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      To Renata,

       for generously sharing your gifted eye

      Contents

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Coming Next Month

      1

      “LEATHER SHOUTS, lace whispers,” Samantha Sawyer said to her new client, who’d flung off a red silk cloak to reveal her outfit for the portrait Samantha was about to snap of her.

      The black leather bustier, red fishnets and glitter-flecked stilettos did not flatter the softly feminine woman before her. In that god-awful platinum flip, Misty looked like a plus-size dominatrix from a 1950s sci-fi movie.

      “From what you told me earlier, I believe you want to lure Tony to bed, not chain him to the headboard and whip him into submission,” Samantha said gently.

      “But Tony loves leather. Leather clothes, leather furniture, leather everything.” Misty swirled diamond-heavy fingers through the air.

      “Tony loves you, Misty. And your body screams for lace.”

      “It screams for air, that’s for sure. I can’t breathe.” Misty unhooked the top two grommets and exhaled in deep relief.

      It saddened Samantha that instead of showing off her zaftig curves, Misty had crammed them into torturous fashions. Too many of Samantha’s clients did the same—wore too-small clothes, stripped their hair of natural color and turned their faces into exhausted masks with chemical peels and BOTOX shots.

      “What did Bianca wear?” Misty asked. “However you fixed her, fix me. My Tony is…wandering.” Her summer-gray eyes went murky with worry.

      “Let’s see what set feels right,” Samantha suggested, determined to cheer the woman. “And we’ll choose an outfit that suits you.”

      “Okay.” Misty loosened a third grommet with a whooshing exhalation. “Bianca told me you’re a miracle worker. She says Darien’s a new man.”

      Bianca Sylvestri, who’d sent Misty here, believed the boudoir photo Samantha had taken of her had saved her marriage and since then had referred a dozen family members, friends and associates for photos. In fact, her grateful husband Darien had offered Samantha a killer lease on the ground floor of his empty building and now she had Bedroom Eyes, plus shops for three friends—a massage studio, a hair salon and a lingerie boutique.

      Samantha led the way to the velvet love seat in the corner of the anteroom, and Misty sat beside her, corset creaking like a saddle. Samantha put The Book of Fantasy in Misty’s lap. Her portfolio featured tasteful erotic shots in a range of settings from exotic harem to medieval castle to country meadow.

      Samantha believed the shots had special appeal to her clients because they came from her own sexual fantasies. Fantasies she planned to bring to life once she found the time. And the man.

      Six months ago, she’d made the decision to break out with her photography and her personal life. At the ripe age of twenty-seven, it had dawned on her that her strict upbringing had cramped her style more than she’d realized.

      Enough already. She’d launched Bedroom Eyes and soon enough she’d go for some heart-stopping, take-me-now sex.

      Her first step to a bolder Samantha had been giving herself permission to have sexual fantasies: elaborate ones with exciting lovers—pirates and princes and highwaymen and cowboys and cops—in imagined settings similar to the ones Misty was slowly flipping through, pondering each with a smile, a sigh or a closer look.

      Misty studied the woman on the tiger chaise in a revealing dress of liquid velvet. This came from Samantha’s fantasy of willing ravishment—being gently tied and invited to surrender to passion by a lover who knew her white-hot core as well as his own. Her personal favorite.

      Next, Misty came to the shadowed nude—Samantha’s friend Mona, owner of the massage studio, with her head thrown back, a faint smile on her face, light falling provocatively on her lush curves. Despite its simplicity, the shot required the precise use of fill and reflector to create a sensual, but modest, effect that suited Mona perfectly. Samantha matched pose, set and costume to personality, which gave her photos their special magic.

      Misty flipped past that one fast. She didn’t have the confidence for nudity. Not yet, anyway. Samantha’s mission was to help her clients honor their natural beauty, but she never pushed them beyond their comfort level.

      Two pages later, Misty gasped and put her fingers to her mouth in delight. Light zinged from her diamonds, as if from a magic wand. “This is it. What I want.”

      “Ah. Sleeping Beauty. I love this one.” In this fantasy, Samantha was awakened by the kiss of a prince who’d searched the world over, risked his life to possess her with his hot mouth, tender fingers and thrusting—

      Stop it.

      Soon, Samantha would live these scenes instead of imagining them. Once she’d hired her assistant—which she’d just decided to do—she’d have more free time for her manhunt. She had to take action soon, before the ache between her thighs became a permanent charley horse.

      “I know the perfect costume for you,” she said to Misty, closing the portfolio and pushing to her feet. “Come on.”

      Samantha led Misty to the dressing room, with its two changing stalls, elevated try-on area with mirrors, lit makeup table and racks of fantasy clothes for men and women. Exotic shoes—spike heels, marabou slides, elaborate platforms and boots—were stored on racks along one wall. Hats, tiaras and headdresses rested on foam heads lining the top cupboards.

      The overall impression was that of backstage at a theater—in fact, she’d scored most of her costumes, props and furniture from a defunct theater company. The lingerie, stockings and garters were on consignment from Valerie’s lingerie shop.

      For Misty, Samantha flipped past the red teddy, black silk kimono and white peignoir and grabbed the pink satin camisole with an organdy robe that would flatter her curves. Clear acrylic kitten heels and a satin cone hat with a sheer train completed the princess